


The Few Fine Clothes

by kapina



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:56:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapina/pseuds/kapina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A few lines by Stefan Zweig and a few lines about Holbein are not my own. The year is 1912-ish, 20 years before the movie. Mme Desgoffe und Taxis is 64, and really the youngest Gustave could be is 20ish, but let's say he's a little bit younger. I'm going to call any historical inaccuracies not actually inaccuracies in this slightly parallel world Anderson created. Anything goes! Though I am sorry I did not have time to research and throw in more cool historical-slightly parallel-tidbits.</p></blockquote>





	The Few Fine Clothes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigrrmilk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigrrmilk/gifts).



“And I remembered, of course, the business with your chef and the Dauphine last spring. You installed him at Chez Dominique? Which is why I thought I might ask.”

M. Hugo is talking on the telephone when she enters. He recognizes her from his visit to the Chateau Luxe a few years back, as well he should—inheriting a fortune from her aristocratic family and amassing various holdings from three dead spouses including several factories and the Consolidated Trans-Alpine news syndicate, Mme Celine Villeneuve Desgoffe und Taxis is arguably the holder of the greatest private fortune on the continent—and now she is here at the Grand Budapest.

M. Martin chuckles at the other end of the line. “You have a devil’s memory, and as it were, you are in luck. M. Dominique is very pleased with Fredrich. He finds him conscientious—quite to the contrary of the Dauphine’s rather nasty accusations. I should have no problem pulling a few strings: Consider the corner table yours.”

M. Hugo watches as Mme wanders down the carpet, glances around and up at the chandelier, and pauses at the reception desk. He remembers Deputy Pichler’s speculation that she might be looking to add a hotel to her holdings. 

And he remembers to speak back shortly. “My dear Martin, thank you very much. I will let Dr. Henckels-Bergersdorfer know the good news. There is no doubt Chez Dominique’s will leave the young Fraulein admirably impressed.”

A bell boy holding a few of Mme’s bags steps forward to speak with the men at the reception desk. She has caught them all slightly off balance—she is unexpected—but M. Hugo is gratified to find his staff does not visibly betray its confusion.

On the phone, M. Martin continues, “I am glad to hear it. A grand hotel should always surpass even the highest of expectations!”

Several bell boys leave the reception desk and head to the front entrance as Otto gestures toward the concierge and Mme’s gaze finally deigns to rest on M. Hugo. 

“But my, Hugo, what a formidable force we’ve become over the years. Has Ivan involved you in his little scheme? Do you know he’s contacted 16 hotels, at least by my count — by God, league of concierges turned underground freedom fighters, I say!”

For a moment even as Mme approaches the concierge, M. Hugo’s attention refocuses on M. Martin. “Did you say 16? I meant to speak to you about Ivan, Martin, really, I am absolutely floored by the whole topic—but I really must go. Really—right now. I’ll call you back.” M. Hugo steps out from behind the concierge desk and starts down. 

His staff has been hastily lining up at the foot of the stairs. M. Hugo takes his place at the front. He has just enough time to turn his head toward Karl, who quietly lets him know, “It’ll be another 15 minutes or so before the King Ferdinand Suite is ready, sir, but the green lounge room has been cleared,” before Mme comes to a stop in front of him.

M. Hugo bows slightly. “I am pleased to welcome you to the Grand Budapest Hotel, Mme Desgoffe und Taxis. My name is M. Hugo, at your service.”

Now that M. Hugo can see her face to face, she seems small, uncommanding. Her eyes are wide open and her mouth pinched, giving her a permanent bewildered sort of air. 

“We are preparing rooms for you as we speak—the best in Southern Pfeffelsstaad, we have been told.” He pauses as her eyes flit around somewhat unnervingly for a few moments. 

“If you would entertain, Mme, taking a moment to rest from your travels, I would recommend our Archduke Freis lounge. His Imperial and Royal Highness himself recommended the charming view of the Sudentenwaltz one may find out the windows. I have taken the liberty of having tea served there already, and of reserving the lounge for your private enjoyment for the duration of your stay. ” 

Mme’s lips gape open, slightly, rather like a fish as she listens blankly. M. Hugo thinks for a moment she has not heard him before she answers somewhat stiffly, “My journey has not been long. I come from the Cathedral. I should think, rather—a small stroll before the tea.”

“Of course, Mme.”

“I am curious to see the hotel.” 

“Right away, Mme.” If M. Hugo did not believe Deputy Pichler before, he must now. Why would Mme be in such a hurry to be shown around if not to appraise the hotel?

Most would expect Mme to purchase the Excelsior Palace, located just a half day’s travel from Mme’s estate in Lutz. The Villeneuves have spent many seasons there. However, Mme has just been to the Cathedral Santa Maria Christiana di Brucknerplatz, just across town from the Grand Budapest. The church served refuge for the young Count Paul Villaneuve during the sacking of Nedelsbad by the Seljuk Empire nearly 200 years ago. Throughout the night, it is said that only the grace of the Lord kept the church safe as the town burned at the hands of the infidels. The church has enjoyed a steady patronage from the Villeneuve family ever since. Mme’s own father commissioned a newly thriving textile industrialist, Franch Desgoffe und Taxis, to cast the bells in the church’s new annex for the wedding of their two children—and Mme’s first.

According to Deputy Pichler, Mme has been to the church five times in the past month, and twice the one before. Word is, Mme has grown quite pious since the death of her last husband. Deputy Pichler had hoped the church might draw her to the Grand Budapest, and had urged M. Hugo to be prepared. M. Hugo is determined to make it so Mme will never spend another season anywhere other than the Grand Budapest.

However, the tour of the Grand Budapest does not go well. Mme barely says a word as M. Hugo reveals all the luxuries and opulence he can think of. She pinches her lips at demonstrations of the electric lamps. Though her eyes spiral about wildly, she does not pause in neither of the grand public rooms, nor in the winter garden, and she gapes vacantly in the Grand Budapest’s eastern observatory as M. Hugo points out the Pfeffelsstaadian landmarks. She declines his offers to reserve the best seating to operas and plays. She does not want a private viewing of the tapestry collection at the Royal Saxon Gallery. When M. Hugo, switching tactics, describes how with the in-hotel telegraph system she can request her mail, a seltzer, a lemon squash, a hat fitting, or any other service all without having to speak to a single person, she responds with a flat, “Hmm.” 

Mme seems to have seen it all before. M. Hugo had thought some embellishments unique to the Grand Budapest—unless M. Ivan had managed some extraordinary alternations since last fall, but no, that seemed unlikely. And yet, not even an explanation of the sophisticated plumbing system in the thermal baths—which M. Hugo is certain thoroughly surpasses anything the ancient Excelsior has to offer—rouses Mme’s enthusiasm.

Finally, frustrated, M. Hugo leads them toward the green lounge. Blocked at every turn by Mme’s stony vacuity and restless eyes, and watching her all the more keenly for it, M. Hugo notices how, as they pack into the elevator, Mme’s gaze stops for a moment on the elevator boy. With a pang of apprehension, M. Hugo also looks at the elevator boy. He has not seen this boy at this post before; he thinks the boy might be from the kitchen staff. But the elevator boy stares stoically through the wall, slightly up, and into the distance. As far as M. Hugo can tell, the boy has done nothing. So M. Hugo calms.

They enter the green lounge. M. Hugo points out the refreshments and sweets laid out on the table, gestures to Otto who will be serving her, and implores Mme to contact him if she has any further needs.

It is then that Mme, facing the window with her back to him, asks, “Are you familiar with the work of Johannes Van Hoytl the Younger?”

“Of course, Mme,” says M. Hugo. 

Mme glances over her shoulder. “And what do you think of him?”

M. Hugo, recognizing the opening, says slowly, “Surely of the 16th century Auerbachian portraitists, Van Hoytl remains unsurpassed for sureness and economy of statement and a combined richness and purity of style? Perhaps an underlying coolness suffuses the countenances of his portraits, but behind the outward placidness lies hidden a breadth and depth of inner life. He has no real successor.”

M. Hugo waits. Finally, Mme says, “I wish to visit the Cathedral again in the morning, and then depart for Lutz soon after.” She sits down rigidly and eyes the pastries.

M. Hugo knows a dismissal when he sees it. “I will make the proper arrangements, Mme,” he says, then leaves.

No one stays at the Grand Budapest for a single night. A fortnight perhaps, or a week at the very least—but a single night? M. Hugo remembers how insistent Deputy Pichler had been that Mme might be the hotel’s last chance. 

When they met last Thursday as usual, Deputy Pichler had revealed Herr Liebling was likely to abandon the Grand Budapest. “His hotels are not doing well,” Deputy Pichler had said, “and the Grand Budapest is the farthest east. The number of visitors has already dropped beneath what is profitable. Besides, everyone knows the money is in war machinery these days. You hear how the Kaiser’s been doubling the size of the standing army? Herr Liebling wants to buy an artillery factory.” It was then Deputy Pichler had first mentioned Mme. He thought the Grand Budapest should not be trusted to Herr Liebling. If there is war, Herr Liebling might turn it into an army barracks, or worse, just shut it down and let it waste away. M. Hugo does not know which is worse. So, Mme was necessary—essential.

Karl meets him shortly in the hallway, and M. Hugo tells him to send Mme something every half hour: roses, perfumes, hats, Mendls, whatever he can think of. To be alert to her every movement and to coddle her before she has a moment to even think of what she wants. And to tell him if anything changes. He then heads to Dr. Henckels-Bergersdorfer’s room to tell him about the reservation at Chez Dominique.

The Baroness Barishnokova catches him as he exits the Duke Leopold Suite. M. Hugo has to swallow his irritation as she entreats him to join her for a game of cards. He cannot decline an invitation from her. Baroness Barishnokova, an endlessly anxious and needy woman, was in an especially fussy mood of late, and M. Hugo had no doubt that if he were to postpone his daily visit, even if it were for a short while, Mme Barishnokova would make her hysterical presence known in the dining and tea rooms. Or, she would try to follow him around, chattering endlessly behind him and stepping on his heels occasionally, as he tried to get on with his business. Nothing would deter her.

So M. Hugo joins her in her rooms. Later, they leave on a stroll to the evening lounge for tea. She tells him for the umpteenth time about the many admirers fighting for her affections, years ago, as they walk arm in arm. She begins to relate her favorite story of the young lieutenant man who she says no one could interest, but who was so overcome by the sight of her, he vowed he would not go on living if he could not have her. When the Baroness rejected him, she says he wasted away to his death. M. Hugo suspects he might have died from some scuffle at his military post, but he never says so. The Baroness is a retired ballerina. Used the fame of her youth, she is as of yet unaccustomed to the obscurity of her old age. 

When they walk into the evening lounge, the silence inside is so total, even the Baroness trails off. Everyone seems to be looking—or visibly avoiding looking—at the table farthest right where Secretary Waroniecki stands rigidly upright and is shaking, hands balled into tight fists, over General von Shrecker-Hagic who ignores him as he forks the confection in front of him. Before M. Hugo can ask what is going on, the Secretary grabs the General’s plate and throws it to the ground, porcelain thumping on the carpet, confection sliding sadly down and the fork skittering then bouncing away from the plate. M. Hugo rushes to the table with a “Secretary Waroniecki, what—“, at which point the General jumps to his feet and punches the Secretary in the face, knocking him straight to the ground.

“General! Step back from the Secretary at once!” M. Hugo arrives at the table just as the General spits on the Secretary. “What is the meaning of this?” M. Hugo demands, stepping between the General and the Secretary.

The General straightens his uniform and replies coolly, “This dirty Gak took my dessert.” A soft strangled sound comes from the ground. When M. Hugo looks down, the Secretary has rolled to his side, hands to his face.

M. Hugo rounds back on the General. “General, I do not know how things are in the army barracks, but where you are now, here—this is a civilized place—men do not beat and spit on other men here! And I will not stand for that kind of behavior!”

The General grunts. “If it’s a civilized place, why have you filled it with vermin?” His eyes scan the tables. “This whole place reeks of slimy Gaks.” Across the room, Luka Ademagic stands up. Almost instantly, the five soldiers seated at the General’s table also stand.

M. Hugo steps to the side, blocking the General’s immediate path to Luka Ademagic. “General, I must ask you to leave the room at once. If you insult any of my guests further, you will never be welcome here again.”

The General eyes him for a moment. M. Hugo is quite a bit shorter than him, but he refuses to show any trace of unease. The General says, “You going to stand there and call me to leave? You’re worse than the Gaks—a slimy country-traitor. Lying with the hogs in the sty!” He moves closer, his breath hot on M. Hugo’s face. “I guess some people do not care how low they get, as long as they can get money out of it.” He backs away slightly, ugly smile stretching on his face, then rounds on his heel and heads for the door. His men file neatly behind him. 

M. Hugo gestures to Edwin the bell boy, standing stunned by the door, to help the men out. After a moment, when M. Hugo turns his attention back to the room, Karl has helped the moaning Secretary sit up and murmurs coming from every direction are suddenly loud. As M. Hugo looks around, he notices some guests are staring at him. A few shake their heads. Luka Ademagic sits down hesitantly. The man and woman sitting at his table are folded in on themselves, small as possible.

M. Hugo heads to the center of the room and raises his voice. “My esteemed guests, let it be clear that the Grand Budapest does not tolerate violence of any kind. And I hope that you will prove me right in saying we are, in fact, serving gentlemen here, not barbarians. Now, we will cleaning up this mess shortly, everything will return to its usual state in a bit. Please come to me or any of the staff with concerns or special requests.”

M. Hugo gives the one remaining bell boy in the room, and the two others who have just arrived, instructions to clean up the fallen dessert, to bring in fresh desserts and beverages, and to go around asking each guest individually if they would like anything more. Then he bends down to help the Secretary back to his room and sends Karl for the doctor. Once there, the doctor finds no serious injury, although he expects heavy bruising. The blood turns out to be from a shallow scratch, probably left by a ring the General was wearing. After the doctor cleans up the scratch, the three leave the Secretary murmuring thanks.

M. Hugo heads silently to the staff room and slumps down on the bench, buries his face in his hands. Karl puts a hand on his shoulder. “It appears General von Shrecker expostulated too loudly about the ethnic superiority of Zabrowkans.”

Of course the Grand Budapest had seen a lot of passion over the 10 years since its establishment. The collected jealousies, grudges, and manias of its various guests brought into direct contact with one another were bound to make sparks fly. The duel in 1903 had left two bloody pools and splatters all around the lobby. M. Hugo had had to recarpet the whole floor. The Countess Eadberht’s attempted poisoning of her husband in 1908, had also necessitated a recarpeting, this time in the dining hall, where Count Eadberht threw up the entire contents of his stomach, vomit like projectiles, spewing everywhere. 

But, M. Hugo thinks, none of that was like this. What happened in the dining room today—that was an entirely different level of passion. M. Hugo is frightened that it is beyond anything the Grand Budapest can contain.

Sighing, he asks Karl whether there is any change with Mme.

“Sir, there is, she seems to be enjoying herself. She has taken a liking to Gustavus.”

“Gustavus?”

“He is the one delivering the presents you ordered, sir.”

It is not often M. Hugo is unaware of every little detail having to do with the Grand Budapest—and this boy he does not know. “Bring me this Gustavus. I would like to speak to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Karl does not leave.

“Is there anything else?”

“Sir—it is 15 to 7. I must leave soon if I am to make the pick-up.”

M. Hugo’s heart quickens involuntarily. “Right. Get me Gustavus, and go.” Karl nods and leaves.

M. Hugo spends the waiting time pacing agitatedly from one end of the room to the other. His worries seem to multiply with every second, and he can envision no future in which the Grand Budapest prospers. To think, this beloved place he has spent so much of himself on—closed or burned or in ruins. When he hears the door, M. Hugo turns around immediately.

“You? Elevator boy?”

The boy does not break his stoic upwards gaze. “Technically, sir, I work in the kitchens.”

“Then why were you in the elevator?”

“Leutwin was feeling indisposed, sir. He asked me to fill in.”

“Oh really, then why did you leave your friend-entrusted duty at the elevator?”

“He got better, sir.”

M. Hugo sits on the bench and crosses his arms. “How did you come to serve Mme Desgoffe und Taxis today?”

“Otto was feeling indisposed, sir.”

M. Hugo cannot believe the nerve. “And he asked you to fill in?”

The boy smiles shortly and something glimmers in his eyes, then he resumes his blankness.

M. Hugo approaches the boy. Thick blond hair, pale skin, large eyes. He supposes the boy may be considered attractive. A glow of youth—and the promise of imminent, delicious ripening—hangs over him. M. Hugo wonders if that is what drew in the aging Mme. He had not imagined her to be the sort.

“How did you get her attention?” M. Hugo asks.

“Sir, even the most reserved and restrained person needs only a kind look or a kind word—and they will open up like a flower.”

M. Hugo stares up at the boy, but no further answer is forthcoming. Is the boy being serious? M. Hugo does not know whether to be amused or insulted. He turns his back to the boy for a moment. His mind is blank. Then he remembers Deputy Pichler’s warnings.

He turns back. “What is your name, boy?”

“Gustavus Hesselberg, sir.”

“Has she asked it?”

“No.”

“If she does, introduce yourself as Gustave—more refined. Forget the surname, no need to bring up your Yalish background.” 

The boy does not waver. “Yes, sir.”

“What about your learning, do you know anything at all about art or music or literature?”

The boy shakes his head, but then adds, “I do like poetry, sir.”

“Can you recite any of it?” asks M. Hugo.

The boy hesitates then shakes his head.

“Well,” says M. Hugo, “you best start memorizing some of it. For now, do not talk to her unless directly addressed. Go along with what she says, and if you have nothing to add, just listen or compliment her. All right?”

“Yes, sir.”

A pause.

“Sir, if I may, I was doing well on my own.”

“Then do not screw it up,” M. Hugo grinds out.

The glimmer in the boy’s eye is back. Unfazed, he glances down at M. Hugo, making eye contact for a brief moment.

M. Hugo huffs out his breath. “Now go.”

The boy stays put. “Sir, I want a promotion to lobby boy.” 

Surely, there will be an end to this? Has he not had enough of this already? M. Hugo puts his hand to his forehead and breathes out a weak laugh.

He looks back at the boy. “Get her to stay for the week and it is yours.”

The boy narrows his eyes and smiles again. Then he nods and leaves.

M. Hugo checks the time. Karl should have loaded the cable car for its daily supply drop off at the Grand Budapest. He heads to the servants’ quarters to pick up today’s special load.

M. Hugo had gotten the first call from M. Robin two days ago. “Has he called yet?” M. Robin had said.

“Who?” M. Hugo had asked.

“Ivan, of course. I can get the Marquis through central Pfeffelstaad. But I cannot imagine he can make it back to Belavia without passing through Nedelsbad. What are you going to do with him? Can you believe Ivan?”

“What?” M. Hugo had said.

“Oh, has he not called yet? He will.”

M. Ivan did, a few hours later. “Hugo,” M. Ivan had said, “I need your help. I’m in quite a bit of a tight spot.”

“Uh-huh,” M. Hugo had said.

“Thing is, the son of Marquis Gorvath and Prince Heinrich were both staying at the Excelsior.”

M. Hugo had already known nothing good would follow. “Go on.”

“Well the thing is, you know with the annexation of Saro-osvina by the Prince’s family and Belavia’s protection of Saro-osvina, on behalf of seeing that whole region as a united, independent Pan-Valsian people—well, the simple thing of the bloody matter is the Marquis tried to assassinate the Prince!”

M. Hugo had had to sit down.

M. Ivan had continued, “Last Thursday morning, young Gorvath slipped his rifle out the window, and just as the Prince was mounting his horse for the hunt, young Gorvath shot at him! At first we were not sure what was happening—the shot was not well-aimed. Everything was a mess, the horses were flying into a craze, and before we could get everyone to calm down, young Gorvath shot another bullet. This one hit of my bell boys in the foot! This time an attendant of the Prince saw the glint of the tip of the rifle coming from Young Gorvath’s suite. You can imagine there was no calming the Prince after that.”

“My God,” M. Hugo had said.

“Now, I am sure you will understand, I cannot afford to lose the Belavian nobility. We cannot have the Grand Hotels know for assassinations, but we cannot have them know for arrests either. It might be a lost cause anyway, but I have sent young Gorvath back to Belavia through a rather underground route—absolute secrecy necessary—the Lutz militia are breathing down my back. Anyway, I need your help for a night in Nedelsbad.”

M. Hugo had agreed completely, and so they arranged how the Marquis G. would arrive by cable car to spend the night at the Grand Budapest, all without anyone’s knowledge. M. Hugo would have to meet and serve the Marquis himself. With a little help from Karl, of course.

When M. Hugo arrives at the servants’ quarters, the servants are lined up in the corridor. If they wonder why he has asked Karl to remove them from their rooms, they are disciplined enough not to let the curiosity show. M. Hugo enters the room where the cable car drops off its cargo and finds Karl helping out a man dressed as a rather ragged peasant out of the cramped car.

“M. Gorvath, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Welcome to the Grand Budapest. I am M. Hugo and I will be doing everything I can to help you along on your journey.”

The young man turns his hooded eyes and impeccable moustache—rather incongruous when paired with his grubby garb—toward M. Hugo. He bows his head solemnly. “Thank you, M. I knew there would be men still loyal to the dream of a united Pan-Valsia in these parts. Thank you for coming to the support of Belavia in times of need.”

M. Hugo had felt a sort of irrational anger overwhelm him. ““I would never act against Belavia, M. But I would never act against any country. Every man has my good will.”

Young Gorvath had wrinkled his brow. “Surely, you do not mean that you welcome Zabrowkans willingly here?” 

“The Grand Budapest welcomes all guests.”

“Then with good will you welcome all Zabrowkans to drink and gorge themselves while they incite my people to kill each other off in eastern Pfeffelsstaad.” Young Gorvath is shaking his head imperiously, luxurious curls flopping from side to side. “You are lucky you are a friend of M. Ivan’s, M., otherwise you would find yourself an enemy of my family, and you do not want that.”

M. Hugo is about to reply something rather ill-advised when he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes and notices Karl from behind young Gorvath. Though Karl’s expression has not visibly changed, M. Hugo understands the warning.

Instead he says, “M., the Grand Budapest condones no act of violence. I am committed to your safety, just as I am committed to that of any of my guests. Please, let us not quarrel. If I may remind you, you are in a precarious position and we must work together to get you out of here safely.”

Eventually, Karl takes a grumbling young Gorvath through back passageways to an unused room on the third floor for the night. Reemerging from the cable car room and dismissing his servants, M. Hugo thinks he will have to trust Karl to take over complete care of young Gorvath. M. Hugo has had too long a day and is too tired by all of this.

He thinks how barbaric it is for people to bring politics to the Grand Hotels. M. Hugo must admit that war might be brewing, but why bring it here, where the last glimmers of civilization should stand firm? Where people can leave the outside world well enough alone, listen to music and drink wine as if nothing had happened. And by what right could one judge these people? Was it not the most natural thing that, living, they sought to enjoy their lives?—that because of the very feeling that everything was being threatened, that they had gathered together all that was to be gathered, the few fine clothes, the last good hours!

M. Hugo remembers what Karl had overheard the other day: General Stieglitz’s plan to have weapons delivered to lower Nedelsbad and distributed to Gaks and Barbs. He believes young Gorvath well enough that the Zabrowkans are stirring the Saro-osvians to ethnic struggles. He saw the results of it in his own evening lounge.

M. Hugo thinks of how the Grand Hotels helped the Marquis escape—16 concierges participated, M. Martin had said. And he wonders if they cannot use their talents to apprehend General Stieglitz’s weapons, disappear them as if they had not existed. He wonders if they should not form a league of concierges, and protect their trades from the violences threatening their existence. He resolves to call M. Ivan in the morning.

When morning does arrive, at the concierge desk he finds a note from Mme, with 200 Klubecks, telling him that she will be extending her visit. Perhaps, M. Hugo hopes, that is one issue resolved.

**Author's Note:**

> A few lines by Stefan Zweig and a few lines about Holbein are not my own. The year is 1912-ish, 20 years before the movie. Mme Desgoffe und Taxis is 64, and really the youngest Gustave could be is 20ish, but let's say he's a little bit younger. I'm going to call any historical inaccuracies not actually inaccuracies in this slightly parallel world Anderson created. Anything goes! Though I am sorry I did not have time to research and throw in more cool historical-slightly parallel-tidbits.


End file.
